


The Third Alternative Rendez-Vous

by JuliaJekyll



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Affection, Aftermath of Violence, Companions, Fluff, Friendship/Love, Historical References, Homophobia, Homophobic Language, Hurt Aziraphale (Good Omens), Hurt/Comfort, Ice Cream, Language, M/M, Mild Blood, Mutual Pining, Pain, Physical Abuse, Pining, Protective Crowley (Good Omens), Romantic Friendship, Walks In The Park
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-19
Updated: 2019-11-16
Packaged: 2020-09-18 18:37:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,319
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20317630
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JuliaJekyll/pseuds/JuliaJekyll
Summary: The stories behind Crowley and Aziraphale's alternative meeting places: the old bandstand, the number 19 bus, and the British Museum cafe.





	1. The Old Bandstand

August 1981

“Lovely day,” Aziraphale commented, walking side-by-side with Crowley through the park on a mild Tuesday afternoon. The sun was easing its way toward the western horizon, which was playing host to several fluffy white clouds, and a late summer breeze was ruffling Crowley’s hair, which he’d recently had cut. There was a pleasant sound in the air created by the stirring of the leaves on the trees mixed with the soft chatter of the park’s other visitors. Aziraphale took a deep breath, inhaling the scent of late summer.

“Very nice,” Crowley agreed, but he sounded absent. Aziraphale couldn’t see his eyes behind his sunglasses, but his face was angled downward, and he seemed to be watching the ground rather than looking at Aziraphale. He’d shoved his hands deep into his pockets, and his shoulders were hunched, as if he were cold.

“Dear boy, are you quite alright?” Aziraphale asked him.

“Hm? Yeah, I’m fine, angel,” Crowley said, making a visible effort to straighten up. Distractedly, he ran one hand through his newly short hair. “D’you want to get some ice cream?” he asked. He nodded toward a nearby stand from which a young woman with short blonde hair and quite a lot of eye makeup was handing a chocolate ice cream cone to a little girl about five years old.

“Oh, certainly,” Aziraphale said with a smile. “Are you taking a liking to sweets, Crowley? Usually it’s me who makes these kinds of suggestions.”

Crowley hunched his shoulders again and bent a little at the waist, producing a sort of full-body shrug. “Maybe you’re a bad influence on me.”

Aziraphale snorted. “There’s nothing sinful about ice cream.”

“Depends what you do with it.” Crowley smirked and led the way to the ice cream stand.

“Hello, gents,” said the girl behind the stand. She had a distinct Northern accent. “What can I get you? I’ve got chocolate, vanilla, strawberry, and cherry pecan, and grape and orange-flavored lollies.”

“Hm, I’ll try the cherry pecan,” Aziraphale said.

The girl smiled. “Oh, good. It hasn’t been selling very well, I’m afraid; been rather hoping someone would take some soon. How many scoops do you want, sir?”

“I’ll have two,” said Aziraphale, who normally took one.

“And for you, sir?” the girl asked Crowley as she began to scoop Aziraphale’s ice cream into a cone.

“An orange lolly, please.”

“Sure thing.” The girl handed the ice cream cone to Aziraphale, then reached into the fridge to get Crowley’s lolly. “That’ll be one pound twenty-five,” she said.

Aziraphale paid her. “Thank you,” he said. “Good luck selling the cherry pecan.” He took a lick of the ice cream. “It’s delightful!”

The girl smiled. “Thanks. Have a nice day,” she replied.

Aziraphale smiled back, and Crowley nodded at the girl before rather aggressively biting the top off his lolly. Crowley had never licked ice cream in all the time since it had been invented.

They passed the stand, and as they sat down on a nearby bench to eat their ice creams, two boys about ten years old with skateboards under their arms went up to the stand and ordered cherry pecan ice cream, followed by a twenty-something woman in a business suit and a young man walking a dog. Crowley, with the stick from his lolly in his mouth, gave Aziraphale a sidelong look. “You miracled it, didn’t you?” he asked.

Aziraphale grinned around the second scoop of his ice cream. “Possibly,” he said.

“Careful, angel. You’ll get another reprimand for doing frivolous miracles.”

“Perhaps, but look how happy it’s made her!” Aziraphale said, nodding toward the blonde girl at the ice cream stand.

Crowley shook his head, but couldn’t help smiling a little as he continued chewing on the stick.

The two ten-year-old boys leaned against the fence next to the bench to eat their ice cream cones as Aziraphale continued licking at his own. He could feel Crowley watching him, and a blush began to warm his neck. To distract himself, Aziraphale looked over at the two boys, and as he watched, one of them fumbled his cone, and the scoop of ice cream began to slip off. The boy’s eyes widened in horror...but then, somehow, the ice cream slid backwards, perfectly centered on the cone, and Aziraphale swore he saw it grow slightly in size as well. The young boy stared at his ice cream with a look of confused relief, then turned to his friend. “Did you see that, eh? Did you see what just happened to my ice cream?!”

“Hm?” the other boy asked, his mouth covered in pink ice cream. “What d’you mean? What happened?”

The first boy looked back down at the cone, then at his friend again. “Oh, never mind,” he said, still grinning a little. “It’s good, though, innit?”

“Mmm,” the other boy agreed, and started on his second scoop.

Aziraphale turned to look at Crowley, who was pointedly staring straight ahead.

“You did that, didn’t you?” Aziraphale asked.

“Hush, angel. Finish that before it melts.”

Warmth flooded Aziraphale’s chest. It never ceased to amaze him, how kind and thoughtful Crowley could be. Obediently, he finished off his ice cream (which wouldn’t have melted anyway, of course; what were miracles for?) and took a bite out of the cone.

When Aziraphale was finished, the two supernatural entities stood up and continued walking. Crowley was looking a little down again, still staring at the pavement, his posture guarded. Aziraphale was about to ask him again whether anything was wrong when he heard the sound of a band beginning to play. He turned his head in the direction of the music and noticed that Crowley had gone still beside him, his whole body seeming to strain toward the sound.

“Shall we go and listen?” Aziraphale asked.

Crowley nodded and strode ahead of Aziraphale, walking quickly. Aziraphale followed him at a slightly slower pace.

The source of the music turned out to be a small brass band - two trumpets, two trombones, a tuba, a French horn, three flutes, a clarinet, and an oboe - standing on a nearby bandstand. Aziraphale didn’t recognize the song they were playing (Crowley did, of course; it was “Just What I Needed” by the American rock band The Cars) but he rather liked it. It had a pleasant energy to it, and all of the musicians seemed to be enjoying playing it, which, in Aziraphale’s opinion, could really make or break a performance. The trombone and trumpet players were dancing a little in place, and the tuba player was turning his body back and forth as he played. The flute players were sitting down, but they were all tapping their feet to the rhythm. A small crowd was gathering around the bandstand, and Aziraphale felt himself smiling and nodding along to the music.

The angel turned his head to see how his demonic companion was liking the song, but he was not prepared for the look of open delight on Crowley’s face. Crowley rarely smiled - not necessarily because he was unhappy; Aziraphale was pretty sure that most of the time it was because it simply didn’t fit his aesthetic - but his handsome face was split now by an ear-to-ear grin of pure enjoyment, and it made Aziraphale’s heart stutter in his chest. The music faded to background noise as Aziraphale watched Crowley start to mouth what he assumed were the lyrics to the song, his smile never breaking. Aziraphale was dimly aware that he must look a bit funny, staring at his friend like that in public, but he couldn’t be bothered to care. The joy in Crowley’s expression now was a welcome contrast to the vague sadness he’d seemed to wear like a cloak just a few minutes earlier. Aziraphale couldn’t help a smile of his own, even as his affection for the demon squeezed at his airways as if it wanted to choke him.

The band played several more songs, and the angel and the demon stood there and listened, applauding after each piece. The whole time, Aziraphale watched Crowley, cataloguing all the changes in his expression, filing them away as if he wanted to assign each one a Dewey Decimal number and shelve it alongside his other books. Crowley did not seem to notice, and that suited Aziraphale very well.

When the band had finished its set, Crowley seemed to be in a much better mood. His gait was looser and his body language more open. As they walked away from the now-quiet bandstand, Aziraphale looked back at it with a look of appreciation. He definitely wanted to return to a place where he’d seen Crowley show such unbridled happiness. “Crowley, I’ve been thinking,” he said. “We should really have some sort of meeting place besides St. James’s Park. Perhaps we could make that bandstand a sort of...alternative rendez-vous point?”

Crowley looked at him speculatively. “I suppose that makes sense,” he said. He grinned. “Did you like the music, angel?”

“Oh, yes. It was lovely,” Aziraphale said. Crowley faced front again, and Aziraphale was struck with an intense desire to be closer to him; to touch him. Slowly, he placed a trembling hand on the small of the demon’s back.

Crowley stopped in apparent surprise and turned to give Aziraphale a questioning look, but Aziraphale just shook his head slightly and applied a gentle pressure. Seeming to accept the contact, Crowley gave a little shrug and turned away, and they continued walking through the darkened park together. 


	2. The Number Nineteen Bus

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale has a painful encounter with some angry angels and needs Crowley's help.

March 1972

Aziraphale had no intention of actually getting on the bus when it came. In all honesty, he’d just needed somewhere to sit, and the first place he’d seen had been the bus stop bench. 

Everyone else who was waiting for the bus was giving him a wide berth, and Aziraphale couldn’t blame them. He knew he must look a right mess. He couldn’t bring himself to actually miracle up a mirror and see, but the distribution of the pain in his face and stomach gave him a pretty good idea of what those people must have seen when they’d looked at him. 

  
Aziraphale sagged forward on the bench, lowering his head. He didn’t have the energy even to hide his injuries, so he just stared at the ground and shut his eye - the right one. The left one was swollen shut already. 

Cautiously, Aziraphale pressed one hand to his abdomen, trying to feel where the bruising was at its worst. He didn’t think he had any broken ribs, but he was certain it would be a while before he was able to stand up straight again.

With a trembling hand, Aziraphale touched the collar of his jacket. He really hoped he’d be able to get the blood off it. He’d hate not to be able to wear it anymore. 

The number nineteen bus arrived, and the people who’d been waiting got on, a few of them throwing glances over their shoulders at Aziraphale that ranged from pity to concern to something that Aziraphale could only classify as smugness. Aziraphale imagined that those people probably assumed the same thing the chap in the cafe had when he’d gone in to use the pay phone after the angels had beaten him bloody. 

_ “What happened to you, mate, eh? Cross paths with someone who doesn’t like faggots?”  _

Aziraphale hadn’t bothered to respond to that. He’d just ordered a hot tea to go and used the pay phone to call Crowley, the only person who would have both the means and the willingness to pick him up. He hadn’t told Crowley why he needed to be picked up, just given him directions to the bus stop across the street. He probably would have just waited in the cafe if the man who’d called him a faggot and his friends hadn’t been making threatening rumbles in his general direction. 

_ “Calling your boyfriend, are you?”  _

Aziraphale was not, strictly speaking, a gay man - angels were sexless. However, he had always preferred to inhabit a male body, and something about his personality and the way he conducted himself, not to mention the way he dressed, had been leading people to assume he was gay for centuries. They weren’t entirely wrong, either; Aziraphale had been in love with Crowley, who also typically presented as male, for ages now, not that he’d ever told him so. At some point, Aziraphale had decided to own the label. He identified as a gay man, despite the fact that technically, he wasn’t either of those things. 

The reason he’d been beaten today, however, had nothing to do with his sexuality or lack thereof - angels didn’t care about that sort of thing. He’d been cornered by Michael, Hanael, and Zerachiel - the latter two of whom he hadn’t seen in nearly five millennia - and questioned about why he hadn’t been doing his job in Northern Ireland. 

Aziraphale had immediately known exactly what they were talking about. He’d been assigned to a few miracles that were supposed to benefit the Irish nationalists, but after seeing how bloody the conflict had gotten and working out that it would only get worse if he performed the miracles, he’d switched his target. Instead of the miracles he’d been assigned to do, he’d used his miracle allowance to speed the healing of people who’d been shot in the fighting, on both sides of the conflict. He hadn’t breathed a word of this to anyone, even Crowley, so it was beyond him how Heaven had found out, but the angels had taken it upon themselves to visit him and teach him a lesson. The lesson had been taught quite forcefully - with punches, kicks, even a couple of swipes with a knife, hence the blood on his collar. Afterward, the angels had left him crumpled in a heap on the ground, and Michael had leaned close and whispered that they were always watching, and that he’d better get his act together if he didn’t want to repeat this little scene. 

He wasn’t going to tell any of that to Crowley. Obviously. 

Aziraphale sat for a few more minutes at the bus stop, not seeing any more people, before Crowley’s black Bentley drove up. A rush of relief nearly knocked Aziraphale off the bench when he saw the car. He struggled to stand, but before he could even put his weight on one foot, Crowley was flying out of the car to stand beside him. 

“What the Heaven happened to you, angel?” he asked, taking some of Aziraphale’s weight on his arm and helping him in the direction of the car. 

“Thanks for coming,” Aziraphale said hoarsely, leaning forward in Crowley’s grasp. A drop of blood fell from his nose and splashed onto the ground. “Oh, bother,” he muttered, fishing in his trouser pocket for a handkerchief and not finding one. 

“Sit down, angel!” Crowley cried, maneuvering him back onto the bench. The demon pulled Aziraphale’s handkerchief out of his breast pocket and began sponging gently at his face. “What happened?” he asked again. “Who did this to you?” 

Aziraphale huffed a sigh. “It was...my side,” he murmured. “I’d rather not get into it.” 

Crowley cursed under his breath but didn’t ask further questions. He held the handkerchief to Aziraphale’s face and began gently prodding his neck with the other hand. Aziraphale supposed he must have some bruises there, too. 

“Does this hurt?” Crowley asked. 

“Yes, it rather does.” 

“I’m sorry. I’m trying to be quick.” 

“It’s alright.” 

“Aziraphale, nothing about this is alright! They shouldn’t be-”

“Crowley, please,” Aziraphale sighed. “Not now.” 

Crowley fell silent again and continued tending to the angel’s injuries. After a few minutes he asked “Are there any more?” 

“On my stomach. But it’s nothing rest and a heating pad won’t cure.” 

“Oh, angel…”

“Crowley, I’m begging you. Please, let it go.” 

Crowley just shook his head, a furious look on his face, before he helped Aziraphale get up and walk to the car, opened the door for him, helped him in. 

As Crowley began driving, Aziraphale looked at him. The demon was biting his teeth together, clenching his jaw as if it was physically painful for him to hold in all the words he wanted to say. His knuckles were white where he gripped the steering wheel, and his posture was all straight up and down, tense and fraught. 

“Crowley?” Aziraphale said softly. 

“What?” 

“Thank you for coming for me.” 

Crowley took a deep breath, then replied in a softer tone, “I’ll always come for you when you need me. Surely you’ve realized that by now.” 

Aziraphale leaned his head against the window and looked toward the street, casting desperately around in his mind for something to say that would break the silence but not hit too close to what was going on here. “You know,” he said, “that area was quite isolated. There were only a few people waiting for that bus.” 

“What about it?” 

“Well, since we both know where it is now...maybe it could be some kind of alternative meeting point? We ought to have one besides St. James’s and the bookshop.” 

Crowley made an odd noise that was somewhere between a scoff and a snort. “Not a very pleasant memory attached to this place, though.” 

“Well. I’ll choose to remember that you came for me,” Aziraphale said softly. “Instead of just the reason why.” 

They stopped at a red light, and Crowley turned to look at him. His eyes were gentle behind his sunglasses. His mouth was slightly open, and Aziraphale wanted to kiss him so badly it was like an ache in his chest. He might have done it, too, if it weren’t for the fact that he was pretty sure the cut on his lip would open up and start bleeding again if he did, and then all Crowley would have to remember their first kiss by would be a mouthful of Aziraphale’s blood. 

“Fine,” Crowley said quietly. “I definitely won’t be forgetting this place anytime soon.” The light turned green, and he stepped on the gas. A few minutes later, he added, “At least let me come in when we get to the bookshop. I’ll take care of you. Get you something for the pain.” 

A lump rose in Aziraphale’s throat. “I’d be very grateful for that,” he said, his voice strained with the effort of holding back tears. 

Crowley just nodded, his eyes fixed on the road. 


	3. The British Museum Café

November 1977

“I don’t believe you.” 

“It’s true.”

“It can’t be.” 

“Why not?” 

“It just can’t, Crowley. I refuse to believe that you’ve lived in London for two hundred years and have never been to the British Museum.” 

“What would I go there for? I doubt there’s anything there I haven’t seen.” 

“The exhibits change regularly! I can guarantee that there’s _plenty_ there you haven’t seen.” 

Crowley sighed exasperatedly. “I’m just not all that interested, alright, angel? You know history’s not really my thing.” 

“You are six thousand years old. ‘History’ is most of your life!” 

“Exactly.” 

Aziraphale huffed under his breath and adjusted his scarf around his neck. 

Crowley’s hands twitched instinctively, his body wanting him to reach out and make sure that the angel’s scarf was where it needed to be to keep him warm, and he was suddenly very glad that he was wearing gloves, so that the motion would be less obvious. He cleared his throat. “Anyway,” he said, “what have you got on today? Just the usual kindness and virtue, is it?” 

“That’s very sweet of you to say, dear,” Aziraphale said, flashing him a smile that made Crowley’s heart seem to trip over itself. “But I think you may have forgotten that I owe you a temptation, which I was actually planning on taking care of this afternoon.”

“I never forget about temptations,” snapped Crowley, who had completely forgotten about the temptation that Aziraphale owed him from when he’d covered one of his blessings in Newcastle the previous month. To be honest, he’d long since stopped keeping track of who owed what to whom in their Arrangement. The whole thing was basically just a ploy to spend more time around the angel, anyway.

"So, alright," he said briskly, trying to cover up his uncertainty, "what sort of temptation are you going for then?" 

"Oh, I don't know. Are there any specific parameters you'd like me to fulfill?" 

Crowley made a noncommittal noise. Hell hadn't actually assigned him anything lately, now that he thought about it. Hopefully they were still too busy being impressed by the blackout he'd caused in New York back in July, even though he hadn't actually meant to do that. 

"Do you think one can tempt demons?" Aziraphale asked casually. 

_Yes, absolutely. You've been tempting me for I don't even know how long, with your enthusiasm, your kindness, your bloody gorgeous face and your incorruptibility. Fucking bollocks, I love you so much. _

Crowley swallowed that little tirade of irreversible truth, letting it burn on the way down like he'd been doing since Eden. "An angel probably could," he said instead, then flushed all over as he realized how close to his real feelings he'd just come. "Have you never tried?" he added hastily, trying to redirect the focus of this dangerous hypothetical back onto Aziraphale. 

"Certainly not," the angel replied. "They'd notice, surely, and then it wouldn't work." 

"Hm." _Must be unintentional, then, what you've been doing to me. Dunno if that makes it better or worse._ But how could it possibly be any _worse_? Was there anything worse than surging with longing for your best friend when everything you knew told you he'd always be out of your reach like those stupid apples in the Garden should've been? 

_It'd be worse if you lost him,_ Crowley reminded himself, then shivered.

"Are you cold, dear?" Aziraphale asked. "Should we go inside?"

Crowley sighed. "Oh, fine, angel. Let's go to the bloody museum." 

Aziraphale looked surprised. "I didn't mean-"

"Come on, let's go. Show me around. I haven't got anything else on today anyway, have you?"

"Well. No."

"Right, then." Crowley abruptly changed direction and began marching in the direction of the museum. "Well done, you've tempted me. Let's see what the fuss is all about." 

“Oh, I’m so glad! This will be lovely,” Aziraphale said, smiling, easily keeping pace with Crowley. “You really ought to see it, dear. Were you in Greece around the time they built the Parthenon? They’ve got sculptures from there; I was quite happy to see a few of them again, though they’re not quite in the best shape now, of course. Or maybe you’d like to have a look at the mummies? I must say, I never spent a lot of time in Egypt, so I find that bit rather fascinating…”

_Fuck me sideways,_ Crowley thought,_ I fall more in love with this angel with every word he says. Maybe if he shut up once in a while, I wouldn’t be so bloody enamoured._ He couldn’t bring himself to interrupt, though, so he just let the angel chatter away, until they were nearly inside the museum and he was almost shaking with how badly he wanted to reach out to Aziraphale and...he didn’t even know what. Hug him, hold him, kiss his hand, _something_…

Anything. 

“Crowley? Dear, you’ve gone pale. Are you alright?” 

Crowley froze. Aziraphale was looking at him with concern. They were inside the museum now, and the warmth was overwhelming. Crowley could feel sweat building up under his collar already, making his skin feel clammy. “Um,” he managed. He reached up to his neck and began fumbling for the top button on his jacket. It took him longer than it should have to realize that he couldn’t get it to budge because he was still wearing his gloves. “Actually, angel, do you think we could get a drink first?” 

“Yes, of course,” Aziraphale said, still eyeing Crowley worriedly. “How long has it been since you ate something, by the way? I keep telling you you ought to eat more.” 

“‘M fine, angel.” 

Aziraphale grabbed hold of his elbow, and Crowley couldn’t help it - he leaned into his touch as they walked to the café together. 

A few moments later Aziraphale had found them a table and brought them two mugs of cocoa - he’d emphatically refused to bring Crowley an espresso - and a banana nut muffin. He pushed the muffin toward Crowley with a stern look, and Crowley took a piece of it and put it into his mouth. It was only then that he noticed how dry his throat had become, and he had to take a sip of the cocoa to even get it down. 

He looked up at Aziraphale, who still seemed anxious. Crowley forced a half smile, trying to reapply the black paint of his demonic exterior. Desperately, he searched for something to say, something to distract Aziraphale from that moment of weakness.“Uh, you know how sometimes we meet by the bus stop?” 

Aziraphale raised an eyebrow. “The number nineteen?” 

“That one. Yes.” 

The angel blinked. “Right.” 

“Maybe we could meet here sometimes too?” He glanced around. “It’s got cocoa. And no horrible memories attached.” He rapped lightly on the table with his knuckles. _Let’s not jinx things, Anthony. _

Aziraphale still looked uncertain, but he nodded slowly. “Certainly,” he said. He smiled a little. “It would be nice to have a meeting place where there’s food.” He nodded at the muffin. “Now keep eating, dear boy. You’re going to need some energy for everything we’re about to see.” 

Crowley took another bite of the muffin, a proper one this time. It was pretty good, actually. He watched Aziraphale sip his cocoa - which, unlike Crowley’s, had marshmallows in it. 

_I love you,_ he thought, as he swallowed the muffin. _I’d meet you anywhere, angel. Anywhere at all. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading my take on how Aziraphale and Crowley's alternative meeting places came to be. I hope you enjoyed it! Please leave me a comment or kudos; I'll be forever grateful! 
> 
> Also, [I'm on Tumblr](https://julia-writes-fanfic.tumblr.com/) if you'd like to follow me and tell me what to write next!


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